“We would have made it safely,” Marit said abruptly, “if you hadn’t stopped to help the mensch. It was foolish. You should have left him.”
“The tiger-men would have killed him.”
“But according to you, he can’t die!”
“He can die,” said Haplo, accidentally putting his injured leg to the ground. He winced. “He comes back to life and the memory comes back as well. The memory’s worse than the dying.” Pausing a moment, he added, “We’re a lot alike—he and I.”
She was silent, thoughtful. He wondered if she understood. They had almost reached the edge of the woods. Stopping, she looked sideways at him.
“The Haplo I knew would have left him.”
What was she saying? He couldn’t tell by her tone. Was it oblique praise?
Or denunciation?
36
The tiger-men set up a howl of disappointment when the Patryns entered the woods.
“If you and your friends can manage to go on a little farther without healing,” the woman told Haplo, “we should push ahead. The tiger-men have been known to follow prey into the forest before now. And in such large numbers, they won’t give up easily.”
Haplo looked around. Hugh the Hand was pale; blood covered his head; but he was on his feet. He couldn’t understand the woman’s words, but he must have guessed their import. Seeing Haplo’s questioning glance, the assassin nodded grimly.
“I can make it.”
Haplo’s gaze shifted to Alfred. He was walking on two feet as well as he ever walked on two feet, which meant that even as Haplo looked at him, Alfred tripped over an exposed tree root. Regaining his balance, he smiled; his hands fluttered. When he spoke, he spoke human. As did Hugh the Hand.
“I took advantage of the confusion... When they went out to help you, while no one was looking, I... well... The idea of riding on the dog again ... I thought it would be easier...”
“You healed yourself,” Haplo concluded.
He also spoke human. The Patryns were watching them. They could use their magic to understand the mensch language but they weren’t doing it; probably out of politeness. They wouldn’t need their magic in order to understand Sartan language, however—a language based on the runes. While they might not like it, they would have no difficulty recognizing it.
“Yes, I healed myself,” Alfred replied. “I deemed it best. Save time and trouble...”
“And unfortunate questions,” Haplo said softly.
Alfred glanced sideways at the other Patryns and flushed. “That too.” Haplo sighed, wondered why he hadn’t thought of this sooner. If the Patryns discovered Alfred was a Sartan—their ages-old enemy, an enemy that they’d been taught to hate from the moment they could understand what hatred was—there was no telling what they might do to him. Well, Haplo would try to keep up the pretense that Alfred was a mensch, like Hugh the Hand. That would be difficult enough to explain—most Patryns living in the Labyrinth would have never heard of any of the so-called “lesser” races. They all would have heard of the Sartan.
Alfred was looking sideways at Marit.
“I won’t betray you,” she replied scornfully. “At least not yet. They might take out their wrath on the rest of us.”
With a scathing glance at the Sartan, she left Haplo’s side. Several of the other Patryns were moving on, to act as scouts for the trail ahead. Marit joined them.
Haplo dragged his thoughts back to the immediate, dangerous circumstances.
“Keep near Hugh,” he ordered Alfred. “Warn him not to mention anything about Sartan. We don’t want to give them ideas.”
“I understand.” Alfred’s gaze followed Marit, walking with several of the Patryn men. “I’m sorry, Haplo,” he added quietly. “Because of me, your people have become your enemies.”
“Forget it,” Haplo said grimly. “Just do as you’re told. Here, boy.” Whistling to the dog, he began to limp on down the trail. Alfred fell back to walk beside Hugh the Hand.
The Patryns left the two strangers alone, though Haplo noticed that several Patryns took up places behind, their eyes on Hugh and Alfred, their hands never far from their weapons.
The woman—the leader of what Haplo assumed was a hunting party—joined him, walked along beside. She was burning with questions; Haplo could see the glittering light in her brown eyes. But she would not ask them. It was for sven the the headman of the tribe to question a stranger-strangest of strangers.
“I am called Haplo,” he said, touching briefly the heart-rune on his left breast. He wasn’t required to tell her his name, but he did so out of courtesy and to indicate his gratitude for her rescue.
“I am Kari,” she replied, smiling at him, touching her own heart-rune. She was tall and lank, with the hard-muscled body of a Runner. Yet she must be a Squatter; otherwise what was she doing leading a hunting party?
“It was lucky for us you came when you did,” Haplo remarked, limping along painfully.
Kari did not offer to assist him; to do so would have been an insult to Marit, who had made it clear that she had some sort of interest in Haplo. Kari slowed her own pace to match his. She kept quiet watch as they walked, but she didn’t appear particularly concerned that they were being followed. Haplo could see no indication from the sigla on his skin that the tiger-men were trailing them, “It was not luck,” Kari replied calmly. “We were sent to find you. The headman thought you might be in trouble.“ ‘
Now it was Haplo’s turn to burn with questions, but—out of politeness—he dared not ask them. It was the headman’s prerogative to explain his reasons for doing something. Certainly the rest of the tribe would never consider offering explanations of their own, putting their words into another’s mouth. The conversation lagged a bit at this point. Haplo glanced about with a nervousness that was not all feigned. “Don’t worry,” said Kari. “The tiger-men are not following us.”
“It wasn’t that,” Haplo answered. “Before we met them, we saw flames. I was afraid that perhaps a dragon was attacking a village nearby—” Kari was amused. “You don’t know much about dragons, do you, Haplo?” Haplo smiled and shrugged. It had been a nice try. “All right, so it isn’t dragon-fire—”
“It is our fire,” Kari said. “We built it.” Haplo shook his head. “Then apparently you’re the ones who don’t know much about dragons. The blaze can be seen a long way off—”
“Of course.” Kari continued to be amused. “It is meant to be seen. That’s why we light it on the tower. It is a welcome fire.”
Haplo frowned. “Forgive me for saying this, Kari, but if your headman has made this decision, it seems to me that he must suffer from the sickness.[37] I’m surprised you haven’t been attacked before now.”
“We have been,” Kari said nonchalantly. “Many, many times. Far more in past generations than these days, of course. Very few things in the Labyrinth are strong enough or daring enough to attack us now.”
“Past generations?” Haplo’s jaw sagged.
Who in the Labyrinth could speak of past generations? Few children knew their own parents. Oh, occasionally some large Squatter tribe might date itself back to a headman’s father, but that was rare. Generally the tribes were either wiped out or scattered. Survivors joined up with, were absorbed into other tribes.
The past, in the Labyrinth, went back no further than yesterday. And one never spoke of a future.
Haplo opened his mouth, shut it again. To ask any more would be insulting. He’d already overstepped the bounds as it was. But he was uneasy. He glanced more than once at the telltale sigla on his skin. None of this made sense. Were they being lured into some sort of elaborate trap?
37
Probably a reference to Labyrinth sickness—a form of insanity affecting Patryns, brought on by the terrors and hardship of life in the Labyrinth.